The Wanderers

by Paula Brandon

  He longed for movement, progress, activity. Anything but this intolerable dawdling.

  The journey eventually resumed. Walking was better than standing and waiting, but the voices were not to be left behind. The whispers hissed and tickled. The earplugs were useless. The day wore on, and the terrain never altered. The flat, level pavement stretched on interminably.

  In the late afternoon a light spring rain pattered down through the arching stone boughs, and they halted to collect water in cups, cooking pots, oilcloths—anything that could hold moisture. As Aureste poured a small trickle of rainwater from a skillet into a stoppered bottle, the pressure of the Other upon his mind intensified, and he looked up from his task to behold a very large wraith hovering a few feet before him. This one was tripartite, with three appendages sprouting from a squat, roughly cylindrical trunk. Each appendage boasted a pair of dark indentations, and he found himself confronting six ocular voids. His response was prompt and unthinking. Drawing a dagger from his belt, he threw.

  Useless. His aim was good, but the flying blade sped straight through ghostly matter to spend its useless force upon a stone bole.

  The wraith did not react. Its six quasi eyes were empty as despair. There was no telling whether It had noted the impertinence.

  He retrieved his knife, skirting the visitant’s immediate vicinity. His companions were staring, perhaps alarmed by the profitless and possibly provoking display of aggression. The oaf Pridisso even drew himself up as if about to issue some sort of admonition or rebuke. Aureste eyed him glitteringly, and Pridisso maintained silence. Very wise.

  They moved on, and the wraith did not follow. Another hour of walking, and the day was drawing to its close. Once again, they slept, or tried to sleep, beneath the stone trees. Once again, the night was filled with voices that whispered in their wakeful heads and pursued them through restless, sporadic intervals of slumber.

  Aureste rose at dawn, sluggish and fatigued. He had slept a little, but not enough to refresh him. A splash of cold water across his face would have helped, but the water could not be spared. Judging by externals, his fellow travelers had fared little better than he. All appeared weary, morose, hunted, with the possible exception of Vinzille Corvestri, whose store of youthful energy seemed proof against all assaults. And even Vinzille was uncommonly pale. His mother’s beautiful face was haggard with sleeplessness. Worst of all was Innesq, who could barely sit upright in his chair. His lips were parched, his eyes glassy with fever.

  Innesq needed to leave this place. Aureste clapped his hands sharply.

  “Move,” he commanded, and took a scorching glare from Ojem Pridisso.

  They traveled on through the morning, into the afternoon, and the monotony of their surroundings pressed with a weight of its own. There was no end to the impossibly level, monochromatic stone pavement, no end to the groves of stone trees.

  Aureste applied himself to the task of mental self-defense. His focus was rigorous, but he did not entirely lose awareness of all that went on around him, and, as the day progressed, he noted certain ominous signs. Too often, the girl Nissi lapsed into that tuneless, idiotic humming or chanting of hers. Perhaps she did so quite unconsciously, but that did not make it any the less annoying. And lately, almost as bad, Ojem Pridisso had taken to following her example. He did not hum or sing; his companions were spared that misery. But he talked to himself, talked incessantly, his voice a droning font of Taerleezi-accented babble. At times, the urge to stuff Pridisso’s mouth with rags itched like a rash.

  And then there was the Magnifica Yvenza, who appeared to retain her wits, if not her temper. The assault upon her intellect evidently roused her deepest ire. She had chewed her lips raw, and she was forever mouthing barely intelligible imprecations under her breath. From time to time, fits of fury seemed to overcome her, and then she would smite the air with her fists, or kick the stone tree trunks, as if they represented her unreachable enemy. The spectacle would have been entertainingly ridiculous, had it not been so unnerving.

  And there was Sonnetia. She had taken Innesq’s lessons to heart, thereby retaining both sanity and composure. His admiration for her grew by the hour. Yet she was no arcanist gifted with special talents. Her intelligence and strength of character wouldn’t shield her from the will of the Overmind. Mindful of this, he expanded his vigilance to include her, keeping watch for signs of alien infiltration.

  Later in the day, his care was rewarded when he caught a blankness freezing its way across her face, and wiping the life from her eyes. For a little while he walked at her side and watched, then spoke her name. She did not respond, and he jogged her elbow.

  Sonnetia started, blinked, and came to herself.

  “Did I fall asleep?” she asked.

  “You were listening, I believe.”

  “I thought I was dreaming.”

  “It’s easy to make that mistake, sometimes.”

  “I won’t do so again. Thanks for the help. I’ll keep watch, and do as much for you, should the need arise.”

  He nodded and thanked her, privately deeming the need unlikely to arise. Nevertheless, her offer pleased him greatly. She was in earnest, too. Later that afternoon, as he trudged along, head bent, blind gaze fixed on the pavement, intellect engaged in the endless struggle, a light touch on his arm recalled him to his surroundings. His head jerked up, and he encountered Sonnetia Corvestri’s concerned gaze.

  “You haven’t raised your eyes in the last hour,” she observed. “I couldn’t see your face, I wasn’t sure—”

  “I’m well.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Quite. Thanks.”

  She nodded, and they walked on in silence, but satisfaction warmed his thoughts, and it was somehow easier at that moment, and in the minutes that followed, to ignore those indefatigable voices. An ally in difficult times was a wonderfully useful commodity. He and Sonnetia could look out for one another, to the vast benefit of both. The arcane members of the party hardly required any such assistance; they could take care of themselves. He and Sonnetia, less fortunate, would do well to join forces. As for the other ungifted member of the group—Yvenza—the Overmind was more than welcome to swallow her whole.

  They walked side by side throughout the day, and her mere nearness was remarkably heartening. His spirits lifted, and he abandoned all pesky doubts concerning his own power to resist the Overmind. Twice more during the afternoon, the wraiths manifested Themselves in visible form, and he found himself observing Them more in wonder than hatred. For once, he bordered upon some understanding of his brother’s incomprehensible sentiments. He could keep Them out; he could do it indefinitely. And Sonnetia? He watched, and saw that she was doing well, but that did not stop him from periodically leaning in close to view her face; or, upon one occasion, from touching her shoulder and pronouncing her name as a question.

  “I’m well.” Her face scarcely changed, but her eyes smiled at him.

  She was well, and he would see to it that she stayed that way.

  The end of the day did not bring them to the end of the Desert of Trees. Once again they halted beneath the stone branches to consume a savorless cold meal, washed down with a stingy ration of water. Aureste slipped half his share into Innesq’s cup, and the addition went blessedly undetected. Had Innesq been healthier, more himself, he would have noticed, and long debate would have ensued.

  There was little conversational exchange, but the meal was not silent. Ojem Pridisso sat mumbling and muttering to himself, his discourse punctuated with choppy gestures. The gist of his monologue was unclear, but he seemed to be repeating passages from books of arcane lore, interspersed with lists, recipes, and snatches of doggerel verse. This tactic, self-protective in nature, merited toleration. But Pridisso’s Taerleezi drone was only marginally less unbearable than the whispers of the Other.

  As the chill dusk deepened around them, Yvenza Belandor stood up, caught Nissi’s eye, and beckoned peremptorily. Nissi rose and followed he
r mentor a few yards into the shadows.

  Yvenza halted and wheeled abruptly. The low light failed to soften her ravaged visage and grim expression. Her eyes were deeply shadowed with fatigue and strain, her bitten lips set in a thin line. Nevertheless, she exuded undiminished vitality and determination.

  “I’ve a task for you,” Yvenza announced without preamble. Her voice was pitched low, and audible to Nissi alone. “I want you to cultivate the friendship of young Vinzille Corvestri. It shouldn’t be difficult. You’re closer to him in age than anyone else among us. The two of you have a good deal in common, with all the shared arcane studies. There ought to be plenty to talk about.” Her listener’s face reflected no sign of comprehension, and she was obliged to add, “Well, do you understand me?”

  Nissi stared at her in silence. After a moment, she shook her head.

  “I say, you are to make yourself a friend to Vinzille. You will be his companion and confidante—nothing more. Where’s the mystery in that?”

  “Why?” asked Nissi, in a voice like a distant memory.

  “Because I’ve asked it of you, isn’t that sufficient? Very well, here’s more, then. It’s only natural that the two youngest members of our group should come together, strike up a friendship, share their thoughts and feelings. It’s good for both youngsters. It’s better yet if the boy and girl can protect one another, alert each other to possible dangers. And there’s the point. I want you to warn Vinzille. When you’ve got his confidence, you’re to make him understand and believe that Aureste Belandor threatens the safety and honor of his mother.”

  Nissi stared at her.

  “You’ll only be telling him the truth. Aureste Belandor is a blackhearted villain. You know this by your own experience—you remember what happened at Ironheart. His attentions defile their object, no matter how fair her name or high her station, and his designs upon the Dowager Magnifica Sonnetia are too obvious to deny or ignore. The lady is in danger, and stands greatly in need of protection. You’ll see to it that Vinzille knows this. So, then. You see what you must do.”

  So long a pause followed that it began to seem as if Nissi had been struck dumb, but at last she replied, “He is … Master Innesq’s brother.”

  “Yes, and his crimes bring shame upon the noble name Belandor. No doubt Master Innesq longs to restore the honor of our House. You’ll help make that possible.”

  “He … likes her.”

  “You know what that must mean to any decent woman.”

  Nissi said nothing.

  “You’ll go now to Vinzille. Speak to him. You don’t need to say much, at first. Ask him something about arcane technique. Get him talking. Then just listen, wide-eyed, admiring, as if awed by his knowledge. That’s something well within the scope of your abilities, and it’s all that you have to do, today.”

  Nissi was silent.

  “What are you waiting for? You’ve received your orders, and I know that you understand them.”

  Nissi was mute.

  “You are beginning to annoy me.”

  Nissi’s hands started to shake. Her reply came in the form of a high, thin, tuneless humming, similar to that with which she had blocked the will of the Overmind. Her slight body swayed, and her eyes went blank.

  “Stop that. D’you think to use such tricks on me? I know you, girl. Do as you are bid, or face the world alone. I will cast you off forever. You hear me, and you know that what I say, I will do.”

  The humming climbed in pitch. The great eyes turned up in their sockets.

  “Enough of this.” Grasping Nissi’s shoulders, Yvenza shook her roughly.

  The young girl’s head snapped to and fro. Her white hair drifted about her face in weightless clouds, but the humming did not cease. Frustrated, Yvenza thrust her victim from her. Nissi stumbled backward a few paces, struck the trunk of a stone tree, and sat down hard, still humming.

  Something between a grunt and a snarl escaped Yvenza. Turning on her heel, she walked away.

  While Yvenza conversed with Nissi, another, similarly confidential interview took place not far away. In the deepening gloom beneath the stone trees, mother and son faced each other.

  “What is it, Vinzille?” asked Sonnetia.

  “Aureste Belandor.”

  “Again?”

  “Still. It’s growing worse. These days you’re with him almost all the time. You walk at his side all day long. You talk with him—you prefer his company to anyone else’s. People notice. It’s wrong. It should stop.”

  “Are you worried that people will disapprove? Are you embarrassed?”

  “No. It’s disgusting, that’s all. Don’t you see that?”

  “We’ve spoken of this before, and I’ve explained that it serves no good purpose for me to be the enemy of anyone in this group. Lately, there’s been more than that to consider. Neither the Magnifico Belandor nor I possesses arcane ability. We’re each vulnerable to the power of the Overmind. It’s good for both of us to help and support one another, at least until we’re out of this strange place.”

  “You don’t need him for that. I can help and support you. I can do it, and I want to.”

  “Thank you, son. But your talent is a precious resource that must be conserved.”

  “In other words, you’d rather spend your days playing pitterpatterfingers with the Great Kneeser.”

  “Don’t speak to me that way. I won’t stand for it.”

  “I’m only saying what everybody here is already thinking. Mother, how many days have gone by since that man murdered your husband? Have you kept count? Have the days been so many that you’ve completely forgotten Vinz Corvestri? How can you stand to walk and talk every day with Father’s murderer? How can you look him in the face, and smile—sit beside him and eat—chat with him as if he’s your greatest friend? How can you do these things and live with yourself? Is there something wrong with you?”

  “That’s enough. I know that you mourn your father, but grief doesn’t excuse such extreme disrespect.”

  “I’m not asking to be excused. I’ve done nothing wrong. Speaking the truth isn’t wrong. And the way you’ve been acting lately doesn’t deserve respect, from me or from anybody else.”

  “Vinzille, listen to me.” Sonnetia took a deep breath, and spoke evenly. “You’re not a child anymore, but you’re not yet an adult. You’re very clever, and everybody knows it. But you haven’t lived long enough to ripen that intelligence into wisdom. There’s much that you don’t understand, and you’ll just have to believe me—or at least reconcile yourself to the situation—when I tell you it’s best that the Magnifico Belandor and I continue to assist each other, for at least a little while longer.”

  “I don’t believe you, and I don’t reconcile myself to the situation.”

  Sonnetia’s eyes widened. Her son’s voice was almost unrecognizably cold and hard. Dismay and something like dread shot through her.

  “You’re not telling the truth, Mother—not even to yourself. You’re making up high-sounding reasons to prove that it’s all very well for you to be with him. Why not be honest, and just come right out and say that it’s what you want?”

  “I’ve tried speaking to you as if you are an intelligent adult, and it doesn’t seem effective. Right now, you’re behaving like a spoiled infant—insolent, rude, and petulant. I can’t reason with an angry child, so I am ending this discussion here and now.”

  “You mean you’re trying to run away. You don’t have any good answers, so you ‘end the discussion.’ Well, you can’t. That kneeser killed your husband and my father. You shouldn’t be friends with him, you shouldn’t even talk to him. It’s wrong. You should behave as if that Belandor swine doesn’t exist. Instead, you act as if it were Vinz Corvestri who never existed. Did you care nothing at all for my father? Does it trouble you in the least to know that he died with Belandor steel shoved through his heart? Or are you too busy flirting with the killer to give thought to such details?”

  “That will do.”
Sonnetia’s face and voice were icy, as if she confronted an adult adversary. “I’m your mother, and you will remember it. You are thirteen years old, and it’s scarcely your place to judge me. Yet you’re ready and eager to condemn, where you don’t begin to comprehend. Well, I’m hardly answerable to you, and I’m no longer willing to indulge your ill temper and bad manners. My conversations with Aureste Belandor, or with any other member of this party, are no concern of yours, and we’ll not speak of them. If you disapprove, I suggest that you keep it to yourself. I’m sorry that you are so offended, outraged, and—what was the word? Oh, yes—disgusted. But you must bear that burden as best you may. One day, when you’re older and wiser, you’ll be capable of understanding. Until then, hold your peace.”

  She turned and walked away from him, heading back toward the group. Her gait was smooth and steady, her face calm as moonlight. But tears burned her eyes, and her thoughts ached with a pain almost physical. Never before had she endured such an angry scene with her son. Never had she imagined that the two of them could or would exchange such hostile words. Of course, he was an adolescent, and at that age, such things were to be expected. Even so … his accusations had pierced like steel spikes. And she was forced at that moment to consider the fact that criticisms or accusations most hurtful were invariably those containing some measure of truth.

  The tears spilled out of her eyes and ran down her cheeks. Try as she would, she could not stop them.

  TEN

  Two guards hurried Jianna along, each grasping one of her arms. They were both large, powerfully built men. Either one of them could have performed the task with ease. She did not recognize the absurdity, however. There was room in her mind for little more than a sense of dull wonder at the speed and deftness with which they whisked her through the vestibule, past the avid spectators, back again through the iron-barred gate at the far end, back again along the corridor.